Roséd Corpse
Hearing Daisies
Roséd Corpse
February 26, 2015
Petals placed on the ground,
Leaves left plucked,
Stems stripped
Decay, masked by
The pretty scent,
A farce façade
Pumped plump,
Pretty face, final place,
Eyes closed
Using such sweet symbols
To hide, to sweep away,
The ugly truth
Stench of a corpse,
All prettified, and petrified,
Only mixes with the scent
Aromas dancing are
Attacked by alienated odors,
Myths, stories
Pungent reek sways,
Sweet sedation
Has gained higher ground
Reality rears back,
Kicking courageously,
Eyes water
The plants will rot,
Beauty blackens,
Perfume of death will reign
Lovely aromatic displays
Dissolve to reveal
The roséd corpse
About the Creator
Thor Grey (G. Steven Moore)
Since 1991, this compassionate writer has grown through much adversity in life. One day it will culminate on his final day on Earth, but until then, we learn something new every day and we all have something to offer to others as well.
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More stories from Thor Grey (G. Steven Moore) and writers in Poets and other communities.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis6 days ago in Humans
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